“The Human Delay” or: How I Learned to Stop Yelling and Love Being Late

35 minutes.

From the time I said, quite cheerfully, “Ok! It’s time to get our shoes on!” to when I, quite grumpily, slumped into the driver’s seat of the van and said, “Alright… finally, we’re on the road,” 35 precious minutes had expired from the Earth, never to be used again. All because my three-year-old son is a living, breathing, screaming, refusing, confounding Delay, in human form.

“Daddy, are you mad at me?”

“… YES, I’m mad at you.”

“Daddy, I want you to be happy at me.”

“… Well, it’s hard to be happy when you’re not LISTENING to me.” I cinched up his seat belt, closed the door, and stormed into the front seat. I didn’t even want to look at him anymore.

And thus began a mundane trip to the doctor’s office with my son: The Human Delay. We were going to be late.

I allocated a GENEROUS 30 minutes for us to get ready. LA traffic is unpredictable. I’d probably forget a thing or two and have to scramble around for the vaccination card or the travel-sized mini-toilet or the two Diet Cokes I’d crush before we even got to the freeway. And my son’s nickname was “The Human Delay,” so I needed margin. 30 minutes should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

He refused to go potty. He couldn’t find his “blankie.” He wanted to put his shoes on “all by HIMSELF!” He failed. He refused to let me help him. His pants were too scratchy. He wanted a snack. The snack I gave him was too yucky. He wanted a donut. I denied him the donut. He threatened me: “I want to POKE YOU with a stick that is VERY SHARP!!!” I told him I loved him anyway. He took off his pants. He asked for a grape. I told him we didn’t have any grapes. He waddled into his room to cry.

And I got mad.

After all the “gentle parenting” and otherworldly patience expected from modern parents failed and we had five minutes to get into the car, I was faced with an impossible decision: would I use my size, my power, and my Scary Daddy Voice, to force compliance and get us on the road, or would I choose to be late?

I don’t like being late.

So, I swelled in stature to fill the hallway. I marched toward his room. I think I was stomping, actually, like an angry troll. I grabbed him and forced his kicking legs into his pants. I whisked him into my arms and propelled his flailing body through the hall, out the door, and down the steps to the car. I crammed his tiny body into the car seat and pinned his arms while I yanked at the seatbelt.

“STOP IT! We’re LATE!” I yelled. “Because you wouldn’t listen. Next time, you LISTEN TO ME! And we won’t be late.”

And that’s when he lifted his glistening brown eyes, looked into mine and, with quivering lips, asked:

“Daddy, are you mad at me?”

“… YES, I’m mad at you.”

“Daddy, I want you to be happy at me.”

And, despite my anger, we were still late.

I failed that day. I let my emotions get the best of me. I used an unfair advantage (my size, my power, and my yelling dad voice) to intimidate my son into compliance. And the result was a cowering, traumatized, scared little boy, who suddenly was more concerned about my feelings than I was about his. And we were still late.

Kids don’t operate according to your schedule. They’re unreasonable and unwise and uncontrollable. And they’re always looking to you for guidance, support, and love.

I don’t like being late. But with kids, it’s inevitable. There will always be something, or someone (like the Human Delay), that will slow you down, make you less efficient, and tempt you to pull out the trump card, use the Mad Daddy Voice, and demand compliance, or else.

But being fifteen minutes late instead of five isn’t worth the “or else” of your kids thinking that, perhaps, your feelings are more important than theirs. Or that, perhaps, your happiness is a barometer of your love for them.

I still yell, sometimes, when we’re running late (I don’t like being late). But when I do, I apologize.

“I yelled at you, and that was a mistake. Being late makes me feel uncomfortable, and when I feel like that, I start to feel mad and I yell. Next time, I’ll take a deep breath and try to be calm. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t yell at you.”

“Daddy, are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m not. I love you no matter what. Even when I’m frustrated.”

Because even if I don’t like it, for my kids’ sake, I choose to be late.